


Burning down the loft

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Humor, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes about two hours to explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning down the loft

## Burning down the loft

#### by silvina

  
Standard Disclaimer. Raise your right hand and repeat after me: they belong to Silvina. I will return them to her after I finish reading the story. Please send comments, questions, compliments, and otters to sdelcul@yahoo.com.   
Much thanks to Jo (JFarries@aol.com) and LilyK (chakbalam@netscape.net) for the extra beta. This should now make sense even if you've never heard of Due South.   
For those who have or haven't heard of Due South before (so that covers everybody) you may recognize most of the plot and dialogue from the DS episode Burning down the loft. The transcript is from the Real Due South site (http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Museum/8428)   
In a discussion on the Ray/Ray wars in Due South (I think) somebody made an analogy . . . . and this grew from there. Some people really really didnÂ´t like this story. If you turn out to be one of them, blame me, but please specify what you didnÂ´t like or why it didnÂ´t work for you.  
  


* * *

[Peruvian wilderness]   
"What is wrong with you? Why don't you just leave this thing alone?" 

"It's not in my nature." Blair answered calmly, anger canceling out fear. He'd followed this man for a while now, and the current situation wasn't half as bad as anything that he'd already been involved in with Jim. A few days with Jim was enough to make this look easy in comparison. 

"Get your feet off the bottom." 

"I don't think you want me to do that." They were in a boat on the river, and Blair's feet were through the bottom of the small canoe, holding them in place against the current. 

"Pick your feet up!" 

"Whatever you say," he said, shrugging. "Ready?" 

"What? Oh, no.... no, no, no!" They were headed over a small waterfall. 

Blair smiled tightly. At least he knew how to swim. "Maybe the next time you'll think twice." 

* * *

"Let me just go over the details and see if I have them in order here. You were in pursuit of this individual for over six and a half days over roughly, oh, seventeen hundred kilometers of deep wilderness, in pursuit of an individual you suspected was guilty of . . . ?" Sergeant Villar asked. 

"Littering, sir." 

He leaned back in his chair and played with the file on his desk. "Ah. I was hoping I had read that incorrectly, because, you see, in the course of the pursuit of this litterbug you effectively destroyed three riverboats, two light aircraft, four ATV's and one pontoon." 

"The pontoon was purely accidental, sir." 

"As they so often are, aren't they? Tell me, Sandburg, was there something in the nature of this man's litter that would justify the destruction of over $733,000 worth of private property?" 

"Yes, sir. Volume." 

"Volume?" 

"And content." 

"What kind of volume and content are we talking about?" 

"Well, at first it seemed to be domestic - a village dumping ground. But there was a telltale odor, sir, one I'm sure that you would recognize. Something like chicken parts." 

"Farts?" 

"Parts. Closer inspection revealed it to be the banned chemical known as DES, or..." The man listened in disbelief as Blair explained the hazards he'd seen in allowing the scheme to continue. "They were bringing the drums in on cruise ships through the deep port at Chimbote and then hauling them over the Amazon with the intent..." He was winning now, disbelief giving way to something like awe as Sergeant Villars leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "The local inhabitants, in an expression of their deep appreciation of the government, recommended that you, sir, be bestowed with the title of Honorary Tribal Elder." 

A knock on the door interrupted them, and the secretary entered his office. 

"Excuse me sir, there's a call for Mr. Sandburg from Cascade." 

He had to climb up the pole to get to the only phone in the area. He'd be fine, as long as he didn't look down. "Hello, Jim?" 

"Hey, Chief, how's the research going?" 

"It's everything an anthropologist could ask for, Jim, lots of fresh air, plenty of exercise. How are things in Cascade?" 

"Well, you know, Chief. Cascade's Cascade. Listen, I'm just calling to let you know that I may not be there at the train to pick you up." 

"Well, that's no problem, Jim. I have legs. I can walk." 

"I know you have legs, Chief. That's not the point. I'm just calling to let you know that you may be on your own for a while." 

"Is something wrong?" 

"No. Why would anything be wrong? I'm just calling to let you know that I'd like to be there to pick you up but if I can't be there, it's not because I didn't want to be. It's because something came up." 

"You're sure everything's all right?" 

"Look, Chief, I don't know if they have a similar thing nowadays, but back when I was your age, we had this thing called friendship. And this is something that a friend would do. Like, for example, if one friend calls another friend and he's supposed to meet him at a certain time and a certain place and he can't be there, he usually calls him to let him know." 

"So everything is all right, then." 

"Yeah, Chief. Everything is all right." 

"Well, that's good to hear, Jim." 

"It's good to hear your voice." There was a pause, and Blair got the feeling there was something he wasn't saying. "Listen, uh, I want you to have a safe trip, and I will be in touch." 

He let it go. They'd talk in person soon enough. "All right, Jim." 

"You understand that, uh, I will be in touch." 

"As a friend?" 

"Yeah, Chief. As a friend." 

* * *

A few days later he was walking back from the airport. His new research project, Larry, had been waiting for him as a new arrival himself. Larry was not excited about walking. Lazy monkey. "Oh, for God's sake, I think I provided ample explanation. Jim was otherwise engaged and taxi policy doesn't allow the transportation of Barbary Apes. Come on. Aside from which, we're almost home. At the end of the alley, turn right, cross the street, climb the stairs, and we'll be as snug as bugs..." they rounded the corner and he stopped dead, "...in a fire." 

At that moment he could feel his mother around. She must be astrally projecting. "Hello?" 

"Hi, Sweetie. How are you?" 

"My apartment blew up." It must be the shock. 

"It's not an easy thing to lose a home." 

"No." 

"Your father and I had a cabin north of Josh River. Burned right to the ground. A kerosene error. My fault. Your father and I slept in an igloo for 4 months while we rebuilt it. The longest time we spent together." 

"I didn't know that." 

"Well you weren't born yet, son." 

"Oh." 

"In fact, all that time spent in that igloo sort of started the ball rolling, conceptionally speaking. . . But I wouldn't let this get to you. Something good might come of it. It did for me." 

"You know, Mom, all the years I was growing up, and now since I've been in Cascade, you've never talked like this. You never told me." 

"I didn't tell you about the igloo? Oh yes, it was wonderful. Took only a few hours to build and it looked so nice . . . Buck up." 

And then she was gone and he was left with the remains of his place, and Larry. 

Since most of his papers and books were in his office, he hadn't lost anything irreplaceable. As long as he kept telling himself that... Turning away from the charred remains of his bed, he wondered why Jim hadn't called to tell him. "Why don't you just get yourself down to the station and ask him yourself?" 

No taxis were willing to pick up a short, scruffy hippy walking with an ape, so he was forced to walk to the station. Too bad he'd sold the Corvair to pay for the trip. 

The sergeant at the front desk recognized him and let him through, offering to call ahead and let Jim know he was coming. Blair smiled and declined the offer. "I'll surprise him. . . Jim!" Except Jim's desk was empty. 

Catching sight of H out of the corner of his eye, he walked over. There was an elderly man sitting at the chair next to his desk, and he made sure he wasn't interrupting anything. 

"What's the matter, Pops? Something died in your throat?" Henri was asking. 

"Not yet." 

"Henri, have you seen Jim?" He cut in. 

"You mean Ellison?" 

"Yes, Jim Ellison, the detective." 

"No. In the lunch room, maybe?" 

"Ah. Thanks, man. Before I forget, I brought you a little something from Peru." 

"What is it?" 

The old guy answered. "It's a sextant." 

"What's a sextant?" 

"Well, it's a very handy little device," Blair said, holding it up to show how it worked. "Let's say, for instance, you were tracking a suspect. You can use this to triangulate your location." 

The old guy snorted. "Sure, if you find yourself in a vast open territory with no distinguishing landmarks." 

"I can see how this can come in handy in Cascade, Hairboy." 

"I'm glad you like it," he answered, ignoring the tone. Tossing one last smile at Henri, he headed for the break room and Jim. 

There was somebody in the break room, but it wasn't Jim. "Rhonda!" 

"Blair! How was your vacation?" 

"Oh, very relaxing. You haven't seen Jim, have you?" 

"Jim Ellison?" 

Why was everyone asking him that? "Yes. The detective." 

"Ah, no, no. I haven't. He's probably at his desk." 

"Ah, well, allow me to give you this small gift from Peru." He reached into his backpack and pulled out her present. 

"Oh, gee, uh, I don't know what to say." 

"No need to say anything. Just enjoy it." 

He passed Simon in the corridor. 

"Ah, Captain." 

"Sandburg. You've returned. Upon reflection, I imagine that pleases me." 

"Well, I hope so, Simon. You haven't by any chance seen Jim, have you?" 

"Um, listen, we've got to talk--" They were interrupted by a uniformed officer. "Captain, we've got a dust up in Interview 3, and there's a guy from the IRS that says he has to talk with you." 

"IRS? All right, listen, Sandburg, there's a couple of things I've got to do, but we have to talk." 

As Simon went off, muttering about the damned IRS, Blair saw movement at Jim's desk out of the corner of his eye. 

"Ah! Jim!" 

"Blair! Buddy! You have a good time down there in the Brazilian rain forest?" 

Whoever this man was, it wasn't Jim, but he seemed to feel he was right where he should be, so Blair followed as he started walking. 

"Peruvian, you mean?" 

"Wilderness, huh? Exactly. Me, personally, I leave the city I come down with a skin condition. Shannon, you given any thought to Friday night? It would be a great first date. Crystal ballroom, the band, martinis, me. . ." 

"My cat has a foot fungus and needs some attention." The redhead replied as she passed. 

"Right." He grinned conspiratorially at Blair. "Is there a karmic chi love thing happening there or what?" 

"I'm sorry. There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding. I'm looking for Jim Ellison." 

"Uh-huh?" 

"James Joseph Ellison. The detective." 

"You talked to Banks, right?" 

"Yes, I did." 

"Good, so we're on the right track. I'm glad you're back, Sandburg, 'cause things have not been the same around here." 

Blair snorted. "Obviously." 

"And you want to know why?" 

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do." 

"Take a look back through history, and what do you see?" 

"Any particular period of history?" 

"Nah, the whole shebang." 

Having gone almost around the division they passed Henri. "Sandburg, you found him. Good." 

"What you see, over and over, is this. Duets. Okay?" 

Rafe walked by, trying to catch up to Henri. "Hey, Jim, what's up?" 

"Rafe, you owe me a fin from last week!" Waved off, the man turned back to Blair. "Think about it. Kirk and Spock, Laverne and Shirley, The Three Stooges. Strictly speaking, they were a trio, but in my opinion they should have dropped Larry right from the start, because you could see the guy, he just was not committed to it. Anyway, I think you know what I'm talking about." 

"No, I'm sorry, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." 

They were now standing by Rhonda's desk, and she looked up at them, smiling at Blair. "Partners, Sandburg. Partners... Rhonda, you got that stuff on the McKinnons?" 

Utterly confused, he just had to ask. "Who are you?" 

"Quit kidding around, Sandburg. You know who I am." 

"I assure you, I am not kidding around." 

"Here you go, Jim. Files 1 through 7, and the background on the Lane case." 

Grabbing the folder, the man calling himself Jim Ellison moved to Jim's desk and sat down in Jim's chair. Blair waited a split second for somebody to tell the guy he was in the wrong desk, but nobody batted an eyelash. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but I rarely forget a face and I am very confident that you and I have never met. Now, my name is Blair Sandburg. I'm a graduate student in Anthropology at Rainier University, and for reasons that, well, they don't need exploring at this juncture, I have become an official observer with the police, and over the course of my time here I have formed what you would call a duet with the person that I am currently looking for, one James Joseph Ellison, detective first grade, Cascade Police Department." 

The guy pulled his badge and ID out of his pocket and dropped it on the desk in front of him. "James Joseph Ellison, detective first grade, Cascade Police Department. Everyone here knows who I am, Sandburg, how about you?" 

Before Blair could reply, the phone rang, and the guy picked it up. 

"Jim Ellison," he said with a wink. "Yeah, like something out of the sixties?" He passed the phone to Blair. "For you." 

The voice on the line was unfamiliar, calm, and disturbingly self-possessed. "Listen, what a shame about your home. Homeless, huh? What an ugly word. Well, you can always live with your friend Ellison." 

Surprised, he watched the man calling himself Ellison as he considered how to keep this guy on the phone. "I'm not at all convinced that he is my friend, actually." 

"Oh, well, great. Then you probably won't sweat the fact that his electric blanket's getting his apartment all nice and toasty." And then he hung up. 

Blair turned back to 'Ellison.' "I have no idea who you are, but if you insist on maintaining the charade of being Jim Ellison, it may be of interest for you to know that I have reason to believe your loft is about to burn down." 

With barely a blink, the guy was on his feet. "We'll take my car!" 

"Oh, please, don't tell me that your car is a 1968 blue and white Ford pickup." 

"Yep." 

"Why not?" He shook his head, then mentally paused as he realized he had Larry. Oh well, Larry would have to come with him. "Let's just play along," he told the ape. 

Well, at least the new guy drove like Jim, even if he didn't put an arm out when they went around corners. "I believe that was a stop sign." 

"My loft could be burning down, and you're worried about a stop sign?" 

"There's no reason to compound the tragedy." 

Larry was fidgeting in his lap, so Blair let him go. The monkey climbed right over onto the new Jim and sniffed his hair. Blair smiled. Served him right. 

"God! Stop it!" 

"Stop what?" 

"What he's doing to me, the things he's doing to me!" 

"It could be a sign of affection..." He deliberately left the sentence hanging. 

"Or what?" 

"Or a prelude to lunch." 

"He's doing disgusting things to my ear! Get him off me!" 

"He doesn't always listen to me. As you know, he doesn't have much of an attention span." 

"I'll crash the car!" 

"He does respond to dominance displays, so enunciate clearly and speak loudly." 

"Get Off Me, exclamation mark!" It seemed to work, at least for the moment, as Larry crawled back over to investigate Blair's seatbelt. Blair patted him absently, watching out the window as the blocks went by. 

"You missed our turn." 

"I did not miss our turn." 

"Yes, I believe you did. You see, ordinarily you would turn at Peachtree, cut across the alley, cross Clifton, and then turn right on Prospect." 

"Yeah, yeah, ordinarily I would do that, but ordinarily I do not have a wild monkey trying to make intimate with me, Sandburg. Besides, I'm trying to shake things up a little bit. Routine is the silent killer." 

"I thought that was high blood pressure." 

"Nah, they changed that." 

"When?" 

"While you were on vacation." They pulled up to the loft and saw smoke pouring out of the building. "Oh, my God." He grabbed the phone and called it in. "This is Unit 1-3-9. We got a Code 23 at 852 Prospect." 

Blair was already halfway out of the truck as he hung up. "Right. You take the back, I'll take the front." 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. This is a fire. We wait for the fire department." 

"Lives are at stake." 

"Look, pal, I don't risk my neck for anybody." 

He barely glanced back. "Jim Ellison would." 

* * *

Caught in the bathroom of apartment 2C, Carolyn stuffed a towel under the door to keep out the smoke. With luck, it would keep the air breathable until the firemen came to get them. Her boyfriend, Carl, touched the doorknob and yanked his hand away. "We're going to die in here!" 

Carolyn was calm, brisk, and efficient as always in a crisis. "No, we're not. Take this and cover your face." She handed him a damp washcloth, placing another one over her own mouth and nose. They stared at each other, breathing in the scent of moist terrycloth and smoke. A few seconds later, the door was forced open and Blair hurried in, kicking the towel out of the way. 

"Come with me. This way... stand aside." Opening the window, he took Carolyn's arm and started to help her through it. Glancing down, she held back. 

"Oh, Blair, Blair, forget it." 

He smiled slightly, still guiding her toward the window. "Trust me." 

She let him help her onto the sill. "You, I trust. It's the landing that I'm not so sure of. Blair!" She tumbled out, landing with a thump on the roof of the first floor's big bay window and barely managing to catch hold of the edge as she went over. 

Someone caught her legs, steadying her. "Oh! Watch where you're putting your hands, mister." 

Glancing up, she could see Carl's head and shoulders sticking through the window. He spoke over his shoulder to Blair. "You know, I'm carrying a little extra weight." 

Blair didn't blink. "Really? I'll push." 

"Whoa!" Gravity took over, and Carl followed the path Carolyn had just taken, landing almost on top of her as she clung to the ledge. 

She yelped. "Get off me, you baboon!" Her helper finally managed a secure and non-personal hold, and she allowed herself to be lifted down. 

"It's hot. Is my yang out of balance?" 

Blair turned around to see the image of his mother leaning against the shower door, fanning herself. "I wasn't aware you could feel heat." 

"I'm projecting, honey, I'm not insensitive. What are you going to do about the pig?" 

"Well, would do you propose I do?" 

"Collect evidence to determine if he is who he claims to be." 

Blair gave her an odd look. "Of course he's not who he claims to be." 

Naomi shrugged. "Well, there are those who would contradict you. You might be delusional." 

Blair picked up one of the washcloths and used it to turn the hot doorknob. "You know, you might be delusional." 

"Oh, that's another story." Naomi looked reflective, and Blair rolled his eyes. 

"Well, there you are." He opened the door, clapped the washcloth over his face, and hurried out to check the rest of the apartment. 

A fireman yelled up to him from the doorway. "You there, in the building... Is there anyone else inside?" 

"Yes." 

"Alive?" 

"They are. I'm bringing them out now." 

When he stepped outside, 'Jim' was waiting for him. "I don't believe this." 

"I know. It is remarkable, although Carassius auratus can withstand fluctuations in temperature far greater than generally known." 

Not-Jim looked at him as though he was nuts. "You went into a burning building for fish?" 

"No, not exclusively. Larry, keep an eye on them." 

"That man just went into a burning building for fish," the guy said, to nobody in particular. 

"Well, sure," the fireman replied. "You take that extra step for red bubble-eye goldfish. . . Kramer! Take the back!" 

The firemen moved on, returning their attention to the burning building. Blair turned around to find himself face to face with Jim's ex-wife. "I'm shaking like a leaf. My heart's going 100 miles an hour. Blair, feel my heart. Tell me it's not going 100 miles an hour." 

The impostor stepped in, pulling Blair's hand away from her chest. "Carolyn, your heart's fine." 

"Excuse me," Blair said, freeing himself. "Carolyn, do you know this man?" 

"Yeah, of course I do." She turned to Fake Jim. "Doesn't he know?" 

"He thinks he's a comedian. Hardy ha-ha-ha. So, did you hear or see anything?" 

She thought for a second. "Uh, okay, I had Linda Ronstadt on the tape deck, and I was in the middle of a facial peel, so no, and Carl here," she gestured as the fat man joined them, "was in the middle of his usual." 

"My teeth. I had the water going, I was working on my molars, right? Next thing I know, I got a mouth full of smoke." 

At least the guy was taking notes like a detective. "Okay, but did you hear or see anything?" 

"We've already answered that," Carolyn said, slightly miffed. "I said, no." Excusing herself, she and Carl turned away. 

Working with Jim, even for the few weeks they'd had before Blair had been called away on the trip, had taught him the value of using all his senses. Standing on the sidewalk, out of the way of the firemen, he tried to pay attention to everything about the situation, searching for anything out of place. He closed his eyes, listened, inhaled. His eyes flew open again. Something didn't smell right. He had just followed his nose to a rather charred electrical outlet under the window when a hand on his shoulder jerked him away. 

It was the guy, the Jim-impostor, his face filled with shock and concern. "Hey! What are you doing? I don't know where you come from, but I come from this little place called America where we got this big thing called electricity. Word of advice - your tongue, electricity - not a good mix." 

"Huh." Blair let himself be pulled away, trying to place the scent and wishing he had Jim's nose. Pseudo-Jim didn't seem to have smelled a thing. 

"Okay? Come on, let's rock and roll." 

He was following the guy to the truck when Carolyn pulled him away for a moment, and Blair was sure that, finally, someone else would see that this was all wrong. "Hey, Blair, you know--" 

"Excuse me, folks." One of the last firefighters walked in between them. 

They watched him go, and Carolyn turned back to him. "I mean, I know what you know, you know, and what everybody else knows, and all of that is... known. Do you know what I'm saying?" 

"I have no idea what you're saying." 

The truck's honk startled him. "Come on, Sandburg!" 

"Excuse me." He shrugged apologetically at Carolyn and tugged at the leash in his hand. "Larry, let's..." He rolled his eyes in exasperation as Larry looked up at him and grunted, his behind still planted firmly on the pavement. 

"Before I die of waiting?" 

Whoever this fake Jim was, he did have one thing in common with his namesake: a lack of patience. Blair sighed and scooped the ape into his arms, where he latched on with satisfaction and plucked meditatively at a curl of hair. "Come on." 

He ought to get a child seat, he thought as the two of them settled into the truck. Washington probably had laws about the proper transportation of non-human primates, and if they didn't, the DMV would undoubtedly have something to say about his riding loose. Not to mention, it just wasn't safe. He belted himself in, took a firm hold on his charge, and turned his attention to the driver. 

"You can burn down my place of employment, you can burn down my bowling alley, you can burn down my dance hall, sure, but my place of residence? I don't think so." The guy was muttering, and Blair smiled. Perfect opportunity. 

"Hold still." Reaching behind the guy's neck, he pulled out the tag on his shirt and read it quickly. 

The guy pulled away and glared at him. "What are you doing?" 

Blair sat back, resettled Larry, and scribbled something down in a small notebook he whipped out of the ever-present backpack. "It's not important. What is important is that we try to determine who might have had a motive for these fires." 

"You always think the obvious?" 

"I never thought about it. Although, you know, one of my mother's old boyfriends, Tiberius, had a life-long fascination with cabbage and its northern possibilities. He once was -" 

"Forget I asked." 

Naomi's astral shade (Blair's own unconscious? He'd never been able to figure out which, and the shrink he'd once gone to hadn't helped, yielding insight only into How That Made Him Feel) reappeared in the space between them, making the truck's cab seem even more crowded. 

"Don't bring up Tiberius." 

"Understood." 

"But that was good, though, checking the pig's clothing for identification." 

"Thank you." 

Misunderstanding, the guy thought Blair was talking to him. It was an easy mistake, after all. "What for?" 

Blair obfuscated. "For driving the truck." 

"You're thanking me for driving the truck?" 

Naomi spoke again, reflectively. "Of course, one pig is pretty much like another, anyway." 

"People are not interchangeable, like flannel shirts." 

"There you go with the obvious again." The guy was looking at him funny, and he decided he'd better ignore his mother for the time being. 

"You're right about that. What I think we should do is go back through our past histories, realizing of course that's not something you are equipped to do -" 

"What do you mean, I'm not equipped to do? I can do that. What about the Greene brothers?" 

"The Greene brothers were not arsonists. They were demented terrorists whose MO involved impromptu thermonuclear devices." 

"Right, right, I'm thinking, uh -" 

"Other demented terrorists whose MO included impromptu thermonuclear devices?" 

"No, wise guy." 

Naomi jumped in. "He's confused." 

Not-Jim snapped his fingers. "Geiger." 

Blair rolled his eyes. "Geiger was an escaped convict sworn to vengeance on a legendary civil rights activist who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Canadian actor and comedian, Leslie Nielsen." 

"Who has yet to receive full credit," Naomi interceded. 

"Long overdue." 

"Shannon," the guy said. 

"Bank robbery." 

"Andrew Rossi." 

"Aging vigilante." 

"Lane." 

"Gun smuggler. Although it is interesting, his partner wore a very heavy perfume, the base property of which I believe was a combination of camphor and rose." 

"What's the connection?" They had reached the Precinct, and he turned off the ignition. 

"Larry, let's go. The connection?" 

"Yeah, connection." 

"To Lane, none, other than the perfume. However, I did detect the odor of ambergris, a base common to many perfumes, in the electrical socket outside the loft, and the same odor was present in the rubble of my apartment." It was amazing how his research for Jim paid off unexpectedly. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're telling me your apartment was burned down as well?" 

In the excitement and confusion, he'd almost forgotten it himself. Naomi would be so proud that he wasn't a slave to his possessions. "Yes. In all the excitement, I neglected to mention it." 

"Neglected to mention it!" Not-Jim repeated, sounding remarkably like the real Jim would have. 

Not wanting to have that discussion now, and not wanting to think of Not-Jim as Jim, he continued. "Well, the point is, the same odor was present, and I retrieved this from the rubble." He held up the broken remnant of a large perfume bottle. 

"Oh, great. So all we got to do is go around Cascade sticking our noses in people's pits to find somebody with the same smell." 

"Well that's one approach, I suppose." 

At the station, they began checking files. 

"Rhonda, did you give any thought to Friday? It would be a great first date, crystal ballroom, the band, martinis, moi." 

"No." She didn't even bother turning around, and the guy didn't miss a beat at her rejection. Apparently he did this often. A second later, he made the connection. 

"Wait a minute. The perfume is the starter, the trigger - what the hell is the name of that stuff that gets the fire going?" 

"The accelerant." 

"The accelerant. Don't say anything..." he was thinking hard. "Two and a half years ago we nailed a painter named Andrew Foust. At face value, it looked like he was torching his lofts to cash in on the insurance money, right?" 

"Yes, but the trail widened and it revealed itself to be a pattern." 

"Right. He was burning down his studios, workshops-- the guy was on a psycho mission against art." 

"Yes, and in each case the accelerant was...?" 

Not-Jim was pacing as he thought, giving Blair the opportunity to prepare. "Perfume." 

When Not-Jim turned around, he grabbed the ink pad. "Give me five, Detective." 

"Sandburg, you got ink all over my fingers." 

"Sorry," he muttered, not at all apologetic as he grabbed a sheet of paper and proceeded to remove the ink. 

"What was that all about?" 

"Ah, it's just a little thing we do." 

"A little thing we do, huh?" 

"Yeah, one of our little things." 

"We have a lot of fun, don't we, you and I?" 

"More fun than a barrel of monkeys." Or apes, perhaps. 

"Very smooth, son." It seemed that Naomi was back. 

"Thank you." 

"Don't thank me yet. Andrew Foust is in the Hexwood Institution for the Criminally Insane." 

"A dead end." 

"Maybe. Maybe not. I got a hunch." 

"You have hunches?" 

"Well, that's pretty much all I ever have. You know that, Sandburg." 

"What about his teeth?" Naomi suggested. 

"Oh, I'm working on that." 

"Let's go. You're working on what?" 

"What?" 

It took a bit of talking to arrange the visit, but soon they were pulling up outside Hexwood, with Not-Jim taking charge. "Okay, this is how we're going to play this mook. You do the legwork, I'll hang in the background." 

"You prefer not to be seen." 

"I'll be seen when I need to be seen." 

"I see." 

"I see, what does that mean?" 

"Nothing." 

"No, when somebody says, 'I see,' it means something. What?" 

Not-Jim almost ran into Blair as he held the door for an elderly woman in an atrocious pink suit. "It only takes an extra second to be courteous . . . After you." 

"After you." 

"Ah, thanks." 

"You're welcome." 

They walked down the corridor to the sign-in station. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, what I mean is that civility is a quality often overlooked -" 

"No, not that. When you said, 'I see.' What did you mean by that?" 

"Well, Jim Ellison arrested Andrew Foust. Now, if you are Jim Ellison, he'll recognize you. If you're not, he won't." 

"You know something? You're a Doubting Thomas. . . You got those files I ordered?" he asked the guard at the door. 

"Yeah, here you go." 

"You see? We're like a one-two punch. A duet. You set 'em up, I knock 'em down. You set 'em up, I knock 'em down." The guy was muttering to himself while Blair talked to Foust, which suited Blair just fine. 

"I have no regrets, Professor. I now live a life of simplicity and purpose. I couldn't live like this before when I was a slave. Do you understand me?" 

"No, I'm afraid I don't. You were a slave to. . . ?" 

"Everything. To everything. Canvas, paint, dealers, galleries, fashion, falsehood. A slave, until. . . Come here. . . Closer. . . Closer." 

"I think this is close enough." 

"Until I realized it could be reduced to ashes. Wiped clean." 

"Ah. I understand." 

"You understand. I don't believe this." Not-Jim moved from where he'd been leaning against the wall, and entered the conversation for the first time. 

"Who is he?" 

"This is a detective, apparently. My problem, Mr. Foust, is that it would appear that someone is continuing your efforts on a far more personal level. My apartment building has been burned down, leaving all of its tenants homeless." 

"Oh, that's tragic. But that's the nature of artistic movements. I was merely the first great performance arsonist. Of course there'll be followers, imitators, possibly a school -" 

"All right, okay, I've had enough of this. You see, my friend here, he's an intellectual. He's polite. He'll let you ramble on about this namby-pamby art crap. But me? I don't know what art is. But I know what I like, and you, dirtball, I don't like." 

"Who are you?" 

"Hey, shut your trap! You look into my eyes! You look deep into my eyes! What do you see? You see the guy? Do you see the guy? The guy that put you in here?! Right?! Right?! Right?! Right?!" Foust nodded, intimidated and bewildered, and the guy backed off. "Good! Let's talk about his copycat torch that's walking the streets that's got your signature, which means you know the torch." 

"How could I possibly have anything to do with this, Detective? I'm incarcerated." 

"Okay, I got a phone log here. Three phone calls made by you. Two by pay phone. One to 277-8813. That's a district of the Cascade Police Department. My district, my department, my phone-- in fact, I picked up the phone-- concerning my house." 

"Possibly." 

"Possibly. Visitors Log. One visitor, marked 'girlfriend,' with no name. Now, you cough up a name or it is all aboard for fun time, and I will kick your head all over this room!" 

"I think I need to see my attorney." 

"Sure, you'll get to see your attorney, right after I break your jaw!" 

Foust looked at Blair, uncertain. "Is he going to hit me?" 

"I think it's probably just a posture." 

"No, I'm going to break your jaw. But first, let's talk about your girlfriend." 

"I have nothing to say." 

"Gentlemen! Five!" 

"It's ridiculous!" 

"Four." 

"He's going to hit me!" 

"Three." 

"I'm sure it's a posture," Blair said. 

"Two." Turning to glare at him while keeping his fist poised over the suspect, Not-Jim kept counting. 

"I could be wrong," Blair conceded. 

"One," Not-Jim announced, and the fist started its descent. Foust cracked. 

"No, wait, wait, wait. All right. What do you want to know?" 

The fist froze in midair. "How about a name?" 

"Lady Ana." 

"A real name!" 

"Lady Ana! It's a real name. She has a thing, an obsession, with privacy. She changed it legally." 

"Whereabouts?" 

"The last time I talked with her, she lived on Utah Street, 705." 

"Thank you," Blair said. 

"Glad to help." 

Not-Jim left the room quickly and Blair went after him, not wanting to let him out of his sight for a minute. 

"That was just a posture, wasn't it?" 

"Yeah, sure... What's a posture?" 

The landlord let them in without a thought. 

"Jim, I found her supply," he yelled, not having anything else to call the other man. 

"We might be too late. I think she's planning to switch professions. 'How to Become an Anthropologist in Ten Easy Steps.'" 

"The university." 

"Step 1: Buy out the flannel section of Goodwill. Step 2: Lick electrical sockets. Step 3. . ." 

The moment they were in the Ford, Blair pulled out his cell phone and started dialing. 

"Dr. Ostrow. . ." 

"Why, that's correct, sir. I am a professor. And you've reached the Anthropology department of Rainier University. My name is Dr. Ostrow. . ." 

They made it to the university in record time. "Where are you going?" 

"The Anthro building." 

"The old Anthro building?" 

"There's a new Anthro building?" 

"...attached to the university as an assistant anthropology professor. . ." 

"As of this week. It's something Jim Ellison would know." 

"I knew that." 

He uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone. "Yes, I know who you are, professor." He directed Not-Jim. "It's right." 

"If you know who I am, Mr. Wright, I fail to see why you're asking me who I am. I would have thought you -" 

"Just put Dr. Stoddard on the line." 

"I'm sorry, but. . ." 

"Dr. Ostrow? Dr. Ostrow?" He hung up in exasperation. "That man is. . . We'd better hurry." Swinging into the closest available parking spot-- handicapped, of course, but it was an emergency-- they ran into the building, and nearly ran into Dr. Ostrow, who was carrying a painting. 

"Ah, Professor Sandburg, you have impeccable timing." 

"Go!" He waved off his companion to check the second floor, indicating that he would take care of the first and talk to the professor. 

"I would appreciate your opinion. Do you think that President Chace would be happy here?" 

"Very happy, yes. Dr. Ostrow, have there been any visitors in the office today? Any couriers, any deliveries?" 

"It's been very quiet today, sir, with the exception of the builders and movers and a peculiar conversation with a man named Wright." 

"That was me, Dr. Ostrow." 

"Ahh. Deliberately misidentifying yourself. Very cunning, sir." 

Not-Jim was back, the second floor apparently clean. "Is this guy for real?" 

"Very much so, yes," Blair answered, turning toward a slightly open door and tugging Larry's leash. 

"I wouldn't go in there, sir. Dr. Stoddard is in a high-level meeting with a man from Canada." 

They broke all land speed records rushing into the office. Dr. Stoddard was inside, standing very close to a tall, blond Scandinavian. 

Larry was jumping up and down, alternately rushing at the strange man and turning away and sneezing. "Would you mind telling me what brand of perfume you're wearing, sir?" 

"Will he bite?" 

"Only if provoked." 

"Sandburg, what are you doing?" 

"Your perfume, if you wouldn't mind?" 

Stoddard turned to Not-Jim. "Who are you?" 

"My perfume?" 

"Jim. Ellison." 

"If you would be so kind." 

"Oh. Of course you are, Detective." 

"Eau de Pomme." 

"Ah. Larry." He pulled the ape away, offering an arm to pick him up. "I'm so terribly sorry, sir. There's been a horrifying mistake." 

"That would be one way of putting it, Sandburg. Let me introduce you to Sven, my interior designer. Sven, this is Blair Sandburg, with whom I would like to have a word in private. So if you and Detective Ellison wouldn't mind...?" The two men stepped outside, leaving Blair alone with his advisor. 

"I imagine, sir, that you would like something resembling an explanation." 

"That would be a good idea, Sandburg, because at this particular moment, I can assume only one of two things. Either you are mentally unhinged, or you object on principle to interior designers." 

"No, sir, I only objected to his smell." 

"Sven's smell?" 

"Yes, sir. Sven's smell. You see, the base property of his cologne is identical to the base property of a perfume that was used as an accelerant in two fires, one at my apartment and one at Detective Ellison's loft, and I had reason to believe that the Anthropology building was the arsonist's next target." 

"Arsonist?" 

"Yes, sir. It would appear that I am being stalked by a performance arsonist." 

"Okay. That would qualify as an explanation." 

Seeing that Dr. Stoddard was willing to let it go and didn't want to hear any more, he moved outside, where Sven and The Other Guy were forming a captive audience for the Anthro department's eccentric assistant professor. 

"Oh, sure, people snigger. What use is the administration, they say. And right then and there I know they've never experienced the faculty softball game." 

"Here they come." He could hear the sirens. 

"Who?" Not-Jim asked. 

Blair replied calmly. He was beginning to understand the case, if not the rest of the situation. "The fire department." 

"Fire!" Ostrow jumped up and ran to the President's Room, ready, willing, and able to give his life to protect his portrait. 

"The torch! She's here!" 

Blair noticed some construction supplies on the table and had an idea. If he could just ... "May I, uh...?" he asked Dr. Stoddard. 

"Yes." 

"Thank you... Do you mind if I...?" 

He obviously had no clue what Blair wanted, but he also rather obviously didn't care at this point. Probably would have agreed to anything to get rid of him for a while. "Good luck." 

Blair started to rush out, then paused. Perhaps a compliment might help. Glancing at the curtain fabric the man was considering, he commented, "May I just say, sir, and I'm by no means an expert, but that muted green with the flecks of gold - I think it would be a wonderful complement to the woodwork, the walls, and your eyes." Then he ran out, leaving Stoddard and Sven to their decorating. 

Preparing to head back to the Precinct, they waited in line at the exit from the parking lot behind an old blue van. The driver caught both their attentions, showing a lot more interest in her rearview mirror than in the traffic she was supposedly waiting for a break in. Suddenly something clicked, and the guy slammed his hand against the steering wheel of Jim's pickup. "I don't believe this. She's followed us every step of the way. Up the street from my house, at the mental institution, and now here." 

Blair nodded as the long-awaited break finally came and they pulled out of the lot in pursuit. "Sandwich?" 

"We're chasing a torch and you're thinking about food?" 

"Well, we have to keep our strength up. Here, bite down. . . Oh! Wrong sandwich." 

"What was that?" the guy spat, wiping his mouth. 

"Window putty," Blair answered honestly, and wrapped the sandwich to protect the impression. 

"What else you got? You got any pastrami?" 

"No, I'm sorry. She's headed for the freeway." 

"Look, I'm not blind. I can see. Okay, so now we are following you. You been watching your handiwork but now we are behind you. You got any roast beef?" 

"No, I'm afraid not, and you know I really don't want to be a party-pooper, but if she's been following us to witness her handiwork, she can in theory still do that." 

"How? We are following her in a truck." 

"Well, exactly. All she has to do is look in her rearview mirror and watch us burst into flames." 

"Burst into flames. . ." The guy took his foot off the accelerator, looking for a spot to pull over. 

"Stay with the van. Don't lose her." 

"What do you mean, don't lose her? We can go up at any time... Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing?" he yelped, as Blair unfastened his seatbelt and reached under the steering wheel, patting the bottom of the dashboard and the floor of the cab between his legs. 

"I'm trying to locate the igniter." 

"Well, how about we stop the truck and locate the igniter?" 

"She's a criminal. Stay the course." Blair had seen Jim do this once or twice. He climbed out the window, gripping the roof like it was his only hope. Just don't look down, he muttered to himself. 

Not-Jim, attention focused on watching the road and Lady Ana, didn't notice that Blair was gone. "Look, you know something, you're a freak. But in spite of that, I'm going to tell you something. This may not be the best time but I'd like to say it before we go up in smoke. I feel a little pink about it 'cause I realize no one talked to you. Number one, I'm not the guy that you think. Number two, the guy you think I am... " 

Blair checked the bed of the truck, but couldn't find anything. Still hanging on desperately, he turned around and headed back over the roof to the hood. 

"...Number three, you know, this was not my ambition-- to be, you know, driving in a Molotov cocktail with an anthropologist on the roof and a wild monkey staring at me like I was an appetizer. It just was not part of a normal desire. Not for me, anyway. I had other things in mind - Sandburg!" He noticed where Blair was, just as the truck drove over a bump in the road. "San-! They said he was agile - he's not agile. He fell off the car... Hey! Hey, are you with me?" 

Blair hadn't really fallen. Regaining his grip, he leaned in at the window before continuing his search of the outside of the truck. "You bet." If it hadn't been for the threat of death, that would have been fun. 

"Okay. Good. Well, the upshot is, I go in and they say, hey, you want a job and I go... I was weak, I was down. I say, well, I'll think about it. And I'm thinking about it. Hey, my life's not great at the moment. I think maybe I can use a change, a change of scene, a change of luck, go undercover, get a new life. Then they say, do you want to work with this guy -" 

Blair stuck his head inside again. "She's taking the exit!" 

"Okay, simple problem..." He swung the wheel to the right, following the van. "That's about it. I mean, I could say more, but that is how I got here. So what do you think?" he asked Blair, who had just dropped back through the passenger window into his seat. 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing? I spill my guts and 'nothing'?" 

"What are you talking about?" Blair had just about had it with this guy. He started checking the dashboard on his side. 

"What I was just saying, you didn't hear any of it?" 

"Well, no, with the wind and speed, I'm sorry. Also, I was unable to locate the - What is she doing?" 

"She's slowing down." 

"No!" Blair made a grab for the guy's leg, but wasn't quick enough to prevent him from hitting the brakes. The guy's incredulous look was quickly transferred from Blair to the brake pedal, from the opening for which thick smoke had begun pouring. 

"Okay, I guess we located the igniter." 

"It would appear so." 

"Okay, this is where I get out." 

"You can't do that." 

"Yes, we can, Sandburg. Our work is done here." 

"Stay in the truck." 

"Look - Sandburg, what are you doing? Do not touch my inner thigh or calf!" 

"Get your foot off the brake." 

"I'm trying to stop!" 

"You can't stop the truck." 

"Not with you holding onto my leg, I can't." 

"Wait. It's too dangerous. This is a public road. There might be pedestrians." 

"Look, I do not risk my neck for anybody... Look, the truck's going to blow." 

"It is not. It is very, very, very rare that a vehicle ever actually--" He was interrupted by a loud bang under the hood, followed by a spout of flames. "Mental note: Equip your vehicle with a fire extinguisher." 

"I am all over that." 

"We've got to find a safe place to deposit this truck." 

"A parking lot?" 

"No, it's too crowded." 

"How about a park?" 

"There might be children present, family pets. . . Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" 

"What?!" 

"Stoplight." 

"You have got to be kidding me." 

"No. I'm afraid not. This is serious business. Traffic fatalities account for the loss of 41,786 American lives every year." 

"Ahhh!. . . Got it." Making a quick right, they pulled into a car wash. 

"Good thinking." 

Unfortunately, they emerged from the tunnel still very much alight. "What is this, some kind of superfire?" the guy asked. 

"No, you shouldn't have pressed the hot wax option." 

"Now what?" 

Blair thought for a moment, then caught a glimpse of blue in the distance. "The ocean they call Pacific." 

"The Pacific Ocean?" 

"Yes, the ocean they call Pacific." 

"The Pacific Ocean." 

"All right." 

"Straight in?" 

"Straight in." 

"Listen, in case something happens, I just want you to know, it's been a pleasure meeting you." 

"Ah, so you admit we've never met." 

"I'm not admitting anything." 

"Give him some ground, son." Why did Naomi have to appear now? 

"Why?" 

"'Cause there's nothing to admit." Not-Jim yelled. 

"He's not bad for a pig." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure." 

"We're getting closer." 

"I can see that." 

"I'll say goodbye now." And Naomi disappeared again. He reminded himself to thank her for that. 

"I'll speak to you later." 

"You bet you will, and I mean it. It's been weird, but it's been a pleasure." 

"Likewise. Let's lock our load." 

"It's lock and load." 

"Lock and load. I'm sorry." Damn police lingo, anyway. 

The car sailed into the water. 

Damp, Blair pulled himself out onto the pier. "Jim?" He glanced around, but his companion was nowhere to be seen. 

"He's a fine painter." He spun around to find himself staring up the barrel of a pistol. 

"Lower the gun, Lady Ana." Trying to stall, he caught the sound of Not-Jim coming up behind him. 

"A great artist." 

"Like the man said, put the gun down." 

She turned slightly to include him in her statement, moving the gun to cover both of them. "And I'm carrying on his work." 

"I said, put the gun down." The guy made a move, forcing her to choose between them. She swung around, training the pistol on him, and Blair saw his chance. 

The shot rang out just as he landed on her back. Whipping the leather tie from his hair and using it to bind her wrists to the railing, he rushed to check on the guy, who was lying dangerously still on the pier a few feet away. The idiot was definitely a cop; nobody else would have been stupid enough to argue with a crazy woman with a gun. "Jim. Jim! Jim!" 

"Ta-dah!" His eyes flew open and he sprang up to a sitting position, lifting his torn T-shirt with a grin. 

"A vest." 

"You called me Jim," he said, smugly. 

"No, I didn't." 

"Yeah, you did." 

"No, I didn't." 

"Yeah, you did." 

"It was a mistake. Come on." Blair stood up and squelched down the pier toward his soggy ape and a nearby pay phone from which they could call for backup. The guy pulled himself the rest of the way upright, wincing slightly at the strain on a rib that had been bruised through the Kevlar, and followed. 

"You know I'm Jim. Don't fight it, Blair buddy." 

"You are not Jim. You don't even look like him." 

"I could have had plastic surgery." 

"You could also be unhinged." 

"I got papers to prove it. I'll show you." 

"I don't want to see them." 

"I'm Jim." 

"If you're Jim, where were you born?" 

Brushing off the question, the guy pressed his hand dramatically to his chest. "Ah, that smarts when you get shot." 

"Ah. You see? See?" 

When they got back to the station, he pulled together all his evidence and headed for Simon's office. 

"Simon, if I could have just one moment of your time, I promise I'll be out of your hair before you can say 'you're not a cop.' 

Simon nodded, glancing at the man standing beside them. "Rudolph, would you please. . .?" 

When the two of them were alone in the office, Blair took a deep breath and started his speech. "Sir, I will confess at first I was a little worried that maybe I had a hole in my bag of marbles, so I did an impromptu investigation. I would like to present in evidence..." he sifted through the collection of stuff under his arm and set out the items one by one. "These are the registered fingerprints of Detective Ellison, and these are the fingerprints of the man in question. They do not match. This is an official dental record, and this is a cast I made of the suspect's teeth. And they do not match. The shoe size is also inconsistent, and finally, as you can see, the suspect's shirt is made of polyester, a fabric Jim Ellison would never have worn. In conclusion, this man is not James Joseph Ellison." 

"Sandburg, you have an uncanny power of observation." 

"Thank you." 

"Of course he's not Jim Ellison. I've been trying to get to you to talk to you about this. There's an operation going on. This operation comes from way up the ladder. Details are kinda sketchy, but all we need to know is, Jim Ellison has gone deep undercover with the mob. Now, to protect his identity, we have to make believe that this guy is Jim Ellison." 

"I see... Captain, have you by any chance heard from Jim?" 

"Oh, no, no, and I don't expect to, either." 

"I understand." 

"Listen, Sandburg, I want you to give this guy a fair shot. He's a real good cop." Blair nodded, turning to go. "And on your way out, send in my accountant." 

"Understood." 

"Thank you." 

He entered the squad room, unsure of how he felt. Maybe he was in shock. He heard his name, and found himself face to face with Not-Jim-- Jim's cover, he reminded himself-- who was holding something out to him. 

"This turned up on my desk. It's for you... What do you make of it?" 

Blair turned the postcard over in his hands. "It's a message." 

\--Cold in here. Heat me up.-- 

Following the card's instructions, he grabbed a lighter from Taggart's desk and ran the card over the heat from the flame. The bland tropical-sunset scene gradually melted away, revealing a picture of himself and Jim, with Jim's arm around his shoulders. 

"Something I should worry about?" Not-Jim looked over his shoulder. 

"No, no. No, everything's all right." He murmured to himself. "Everything is actually fine." 

"Okay. Well..." 

Blair made up his mind. "Hey, Jim... Would you like to go and get something to eat with me?" 

The new guy's face broke into a surprised, pleased smile. "Yeah... I just got to, uh, I'll put away these files and meet you at the car." 

"All right. Good." Taking Larry's hand, he headed for the parking lot and the loaner car they'd gotten from the impound lot. Naomi's shade met them at the squad room door. 

"Would you like my opinion?" 

"Do I have any choice?" 

"There's no need to be rude, Blair. He's a good man." 

"I think you're right." 

"We have to find somewhere to live." 

"What do you mean 'we'?" 

"That's a cruel joke, son. I've been thinking about an office. I think I need an office." 

"What the hell would you do with an office?" 

"Office work. Memoirs, catch up on my taxes..." 

"Taxes! You haven't paid taxes for twenty years." 

"Oh, they find you, son. They find you..." 

With the astral shade of his mother on his right and a slightly damp ape on his left, homeless once again unless he could get a room at the dorms, Blair set out to make friends with the lonely young man who would help him protect his Sentinel. 

* * *

End Burning down the loft by silvina: sdelcul@yahoo.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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